A Proposition
by Ink On Paper
Summary: "Are you propositioning me, Tony?" . . . .  Tag to Ships In The Night. Tiva.


**A/N: Hi everybody! Geez, it feels like it's been forever (it's been awhile anyway). I have successfully completed my examinations -no clue how I did, but they are DONE! And have I a ton of stuff for you -it's just a matter of typing it up and making it work like I want it to. There will be another little oneshot up either later today to tomorrow and I hope to post a little scene from Our Forever as well . . . . So, keep the peace and until next time, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Can we keep Special Agent Borin? **

**Tag to Ships In The Night:**

A Proposition

"If I drive home by myself, I'll fall asleep at the wheel."

Her gaze slides over to him lazily and she shrugs, "Then I suppose I will have to ride with you, yes?"

And he nods once, a quick, sloppy bob as he presses the unlock button on his keychain. "At least," he offers, opening the passenger side door for her, "you'll save gas."

...

They go to her apartment because it's closer, stumbling through the front door like zombies drunk on brain juice. She toes her shoes off with a hiss as he shrugs out of his jacket and yanks his tie loose, draping both garments over a kitchen chair.

He has a brief –mere seconds really- debate as to rather he should eat something or not, but he catches a glimpse of Ziva retreating barefoot toward the bedroom wearing her bra and trousers, her blouse already discarded on the couch.

He decides he's not that hungry and follows her.

...

He face plants on the bed, sinking into the mattress with a blissful sigh. And, yeah, he's being smothered, but he's too tired to care.

There's a dip in the bed and he turns his head, able to breathe again as cool air laps at his face, at his closed eyelids.

He shifts onto his side and she accepts his silent offer, molding her spine against his chest, his knees pressing into the backs of her thighs, spooning up behind her. And his arm drapes heavily across the sweet curve on her waist.

And he's still wearing his dress shirt, slacks, and socks and while she's removed her blouse, she's still dressed in her work clothes as well.

Tony sighs, inhaling the fading scent of Ziva's shampoo and the crisp freshness of laundered linens, unaware that the bed's still made and the bedside lamp is still on.

...

When he sighs and rolls over, opening his eyes reluctantly, the room is dark and the alarm clock glows eight o'three from the bedside table. He stretches stiffly, his joints popping in protest, and yawns.

Ziva's not there and he's suddenly aware that he's been wearing the same suit for over forty-eight hours.

He turns the water on in the shower, noticing that droplets cling to the tiles and, yeah, she's been here. He ducks back out as steam begins to fill the bathroom, coming to stand before the mirror.

He looks like hell warmed over, he decides, with his hair mussed up on the right and his dress shirt a rumpled mess the is in desperate need of an iron –or an incinerator. There are still dark patches underneath his eyes despite the eleven hours of much needed –and much deserved- sleep. He needs to shave, a day and a half's worth of sand paper shadowing his jaw.

He begins to strip, discarding his clothes in the ungraceful heap beside the bathtub, his pants and undershirt mingling with the pile of Ziva's slacks and thong.

When the water hits his shoulders a few seconds later he wonders if he's in heaven.

...

She sitting on couch with her legs folded up underneath her when he emerges from the bedroom half an hour later. Her hair's pulled back loosely in a ponytail and she's wearing a grey pullover and yoga pants with a book propped open on her lap. A cereal bowl sits on the coffee table, empty save for the milky dregs and spoon. The Antique Roadshow is on the television, some elderly woman yammering about how she acquired the ugly porcelain spaniel she's having appraised.

"Hey," he says and she looks up at him, a warm smile playing on her lips.

"Hey yourself," she greets in return, "Sleep well?"

"Slept hard. You leave any cereal for me?" he asks, motioning for her to pass her dirty dishes to him.

She hands them over, replying, "Of course." And he disappears into the kitchen only to return with his own bowl of Mini Wheats.

He sits on the other end of the couch, stretching out long ways, tucking his toes under her butt. He eats quietly as she turns a page in her book and the little old lady on TV gets four thousand bucks for her hideous dog figurine. When he's done eating, he sets the bowl on the coffee table and leans back, watching her read until she glances over at him with a curious quirk of an eyebrow.

"What?"

"I have a proposition for you, Zee-vah."

"Are you propositioning me, Tony?" she asks innocently.

"It's a proposal," he clarifies and when her eyes sparkle mischievously he braces himself because he set him up for that one.

"Reeeaaaally?" And she's grinning now, enjoying the tease.

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, prodding her hip with his toe. "Ziva."

"What is your . . . . _proposal_, Tony?"

"I don't know if I want to tell you."

"I'll be good," she promises and he laughs.

"I am willing to take you to the airport so you don't have to pay for parking when you go to Miami next week."

She cocks her head to the side, studying him closely. "If?" she prompts because that is only the first half of his 'proposal' and she knows it.

He grins. "If," he finishes, "you come with me to the Caribbean next month."

"The Caribbean?" she repeats, eyebrows encroaching upon her hairline.

He nods, "A buddy of mine has a time share in Saint Thomas."

"Why me?"

"Why not?" he counters.

"You promised you would not be weird about my visiting my friend in Miami," she reminds him.

And he nods again, "I know and I'm not. I've actually been planning the Saint Thomas thing since the end of November. It was supposed to be your birthday present." But her father had thrown a wrench in that surprise and he'd had to save it.

"Oh."

"So . . . . What do you think?"

"I think . . . . I think that would be nice," she says slowly.

"You don't sound too convinced."

"It's just . . . . We've never done anything like that together . . . ."

"It's been almost a year, Ziva," he points out gently.

"I didn't think this was exclusive."

He almost manages to get the hurt out of his eyes before she can see –almost. "It isn't," he agrees, slowly. "I just thought, you know, it'll still be cold in February and we could use a few days of warm weather . . . ." He's back pedaling and she suddenly regrets her insecurity. She leans forward, invading his personal space and presses her lips to his once, twice, three times.

"I assume you will be picking me up from the airport as well?" she asks slowly, straddling his waist.

"Of course."

"Then I would love to go, Tony," she tells him earnestly and he smiles that big, dazzling smile of his.

"It's a deal, innamorata."

**A/N2: ?**


End file.
